


Piecing Together Our Pieces

by plumbum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Charlotte basically catalogues everything she knows about Joan before she enters the flat, EDIT- it's John, F/F, Femlock, John makes more sense, Pining!Sherlock, She's so in love, Sick Fic, Sick!Joan, So does Sherlock, Unrequited Love, fem!lock, i guess, idk people type it oddly sometimes, it's cute, maybe it'll turn into something slightly smutty when Joan recovers, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumbum/pseuds/plumbum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock reminds herself of the most important details (she thinks) of John Watson before entering the flat. She's so in love it's pathetic, honestly.<br/>***<br/>UPDATE: Never to be continued. I fucking hate you guys for reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piecing Together Our Pieces

Her name is John. She prefers to be called such. Her feet are small, a size seven or so, as are her hands, but they are all far sturdier than one would imagine. Her favourite bra is not the beige one with the ageing fabric at the straps, no matter how much she might say it is. It’s the black one, the strapless one. It makes her feel young. Perky. She wears this bra on dates that she think will go well. John does not like the cold weather, the wet weather, the London weather. She likes the blistering dry heat of foreign deserts. Her hair is sunlight, her eyes are the turbulent sea before a storm. Like nothing else anyone will ever see. Perfect. Her voice... even better. John's voice is Jaffa cakes and gunpowder. Beautiful.  
When John drinks whiskey, she squeezes the entirety of the glass in her calloused hands before drinking it. Tightly. Well, as much as she can hold. Her hands are small, as was previously mentioned. After finishing the drink, she tends to stare at the ceiling for a while. This is the best time to ask her questions about herself. Her sister, favourite type of tampon, her abusive father. She hates the tourists that come to stare at the architecture of the city. They tend to get in her way, and she tends to walk rather quickly. Her favourite chair is old, and never without some sort of blanket hanging on the back. She sits very still when she is angry, and Sherlock loves her.  
Sherlock, not John, steps into their shared apartment, after having documented all of this, and shakes the rain out of her hair.  
“Home, finally?” John rasps, turning over on the couch.  
“Yes. You’re sick.”  
“Yes.” John pauses, then looks up, and whispers, “You’re late.”  
“There was terrible traffic on the way home. Cars lined up from here to the next city.”  
“Oh. I see.” Except she's lying. And John knows.  
“I’ll make you some tea.” And, by this, Sherlock means /I love you, your sunlight hair and your favourite tea and your contradictory opinions and I love and I love you and I love you./

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is appreciated!


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